


Progression of Vivisection

by StellarRequiem



Series: Is It Was It Love [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Codependency, M/M, canon-consistent but more or less Felix sympathetic, felix-centric, lolix, mutually destructive relationship, psychological abuse, trigger warning: body horror/blood gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarRequiem/pseuds/StellarRequiem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An abstract interpretation of the progression of Locus and Felix's relationship driven by the question of "Is it love, Felix?"  Revolves around their co-dependence, Felix's sense of control over the relationship and Locus, and how it impacts them both as it wears over time.</p><p>Second person directed at Felix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progression of Vivisection

Is it love, Felix? As you peel away the strip-string muscle fibers of your hearts? As you twine them together between your absent fingers; as you knot him into you forever?

You pull him bloody handed by the sweatslick length of his hair, heartstrings stretched between you. You bask in the way it feels to be the brightest spot his lightblind eyes dare hope to see as you coax his head up, demanding that he look at you from where you've put him on his knees.

Is it love, Felix, as you whittle at the cords between you, cutting muscle fine and taught—your absent entertainment—until your veins your tendons your heartstrings are all that support him? Muscle fiber strips tying him close enough to step inside you, partaking of your blood supply.  Watching you as he does, suspicion in his eyes.

He slaps your hands from his open chest cavity, from the dents you built for yourself in his armor, even as you take from him the wet hot taste of breathing. Stealing it from his mouth, claiming flavors of his mixed emotions, tart and heady, for your tongue.

Is it love, Felix, as you dig searching fingers into brain matter, capturing him through his scalp his skull his hair? You drive your teeth into soft greypink, tasteless but for blood, sparking corridors of neurons hot against your tastebuds.

You are licking a battery. You repurpose its electricity as it overloads your own, drinking from the chalice of his thoughts. You can still feel them after he hides them.

Is it love, Felix, as you decide—your weak heart sharing in his bursting—to take him for your own?

You build something strongweak and ugly-bloody with his pieces and his closeness. Tied to you by stringy bands of heart and twisted vein, fluids slickening the space between you, chest to open chest as the world closes in upon you.

You make him empty him of himself, and he is yours.

Is it love, Felix, when time and mission part you? As you turn innate and scar-solidified connections to a dance that twists aortas like jump ropes, like ribbons around a maypole, a waltz of lies and distance with your orchestration keeping time. A weaving of stretched tendons that leaves him seeping, ragged, while their twining sharpens the calloused edges of the hollow empty of your chest.

Is it love, Felix, as he burns before you; gun catching in the thickness of sclerosis-altered heartstrands as he aims it at the center of your head? 

His fears bleed, not so much into you as on you, poisoning the edges of your mind. A bad and sour feeling in your bloodstream inexorable from all he is. Of all you've made him to be, and all that he's allowed.

He lowers and you hold, pistol pointed, KA-BAR live as fire under your palm, as you stand ready to sever the live connections between you, to spill you both upon the floor. To undo you; all you are and all you were.

Is it love, Felix? As you wind your bloodslick ties between you in tightened coils about your wrist, drawing him up beside you, pulling his shoulder under your hand?  He is bleeding. A steady-constant sticky sludge. You use your presence to staunch the flow, taking him by his tongue and by his place in space and tugging at the edges of his brain. Your claws slip smoothsharp through his scalp, tearing at your fingernails.

Snagging yourself on the ragged wound he seeps from as he grows fainter-paler in your arms.

Is it love, Felix, as all you've built and all you'd take descends from heaven, falling, breaking at your feet? You ask yourself if you need to slow his bleeding, if his ragged heart could still enliven you from where you've put him at your back, content to be the other half of you as hardlight crackles at your chest, hot against the wound he’s left.  Cold compared to the deathbright light before you, around you, swelling like a wound to consume every hope and purpose you once possessed.

And is it love, Felix, as you stand steady in the face of it? As the light moves in to swallow, you feel tendons drawn taught between you.

Is it love, Felix, as he wavers at your back?


End file.
